The Maw

Image generated by Canva Free AI Image Generator.

25 minutes

Light Sensuality

Please enjoy this teaser from my upcoming collection of short stories, “Hearts Uncanny”.

I.

For once, it worried Francis that he could not hear the machines’ harsh heckling, nor feel the heavy tread of the battle rig that sent its own tremors through the ground as it strode. He began pacing the room; a habit of his. He knew he should stand still. His left knee was bad, and he’d pushed it too far today, down in the caves. If the rig were coming back, he’d feel its heavy tread through the floor. Thinking, planning, worrying—none of that would help. He’d know she’d returned by the sound of the heavy clamps sliding into the back of the rig, locking it in place.

I have to trust her, Francis thought. He’d heard the rig sprinting away from the compound, its heavy footfalls sending ever-distant tremors back toward him through the planet’s surface, making the walls vibrate. But why had she run? Francis walked over to the boom tube, and looked up into the darkness of its long shaft, as if that would bring her home sooner. He gripped the sides of the long half-cylinder down which her capsule would slide. He held his breath, and made himself still. He prayed.

First like a dream, and then too concrete to be mistaken, he felt the rig’s approach. It was coming back. Stumbling back? Francis let out a long, pent-up breath. The slight rumbles tickled the arches of his feet until he finally heard her dock-in tens of meters up. He stumbled away, so that the capsule wouldn’t strike him on the way down. After a while—too long for his comfort—it shot down the tube, hit the pads, and bounced until it came to a rest.

The capsule looked like an elongated beer can. He stared, waiting for it to open. When it didn’t, he ambled back over, but first cast a glance up the tube to make sure the other end was sealed and dark. It was day outside, but no light shone through the far-off top end. He was satisfied. He opened the capsule door manually.

Claire lay with her eyes open, arms crossed over her chest. He could see she was soaking wet. He could smell that she’d lost control of her body.

“Claire? Honey? Are you alright?”

He took a canvas from a small shelf that was there in the docking hemisphere for just this contingency. He snapped it open, and spread it on the floor. Then he reached in, and scooped her out like a baby, noting in passing that the capsule would have to be cleaned. As he lifted her, he didn’t feel the pressure on his knee. Francis laid Claire on the canvas.

He stripped off her suit, and then the clothes beneath, and set them to one side. With the extra material he began mopping her up. She’d soiled herself, but most of the moisture seemed to be perspiration. Her eyes were still wide open. Her teeth, clenched. Francis had to work quickly. He fetched another canvas, and rolled her up inside to keep her warm. Then he scooped up the whole human parcel, cradling her rigid body against his own as he stumbled away from the soiled capsule. He put his back to the wall, and slid to the floor, holding her tight. Now he sat with his shoulders against the wall of the docking hemisphere, his wife in her white shroud leaning across his lap like the Pieta.

“Your name is Claire Eanes,” said Francis.

“My name is Claire Eanes,” repeated Claire.

“You are thirty-seven years old.”

“I am thirty-seven years old.”

“You were married in San Francisco.”

“I was married in … what is San Francisco?”

“San Francisco is a city,” said Francis. “What is a city, Claire?”

“A city is a mound, where black things crawl.”

“No,” said Francis, “that is an ant hill. What is a city?”

“A city is a town?”

“A town is like a city. Towns are in cities,” said Francis. “What is city?”

“A city is buildings … made by machines.”

“A city is buildings made by people,” he corrected.

“People cannot make things,” said Claire. “People cannot do anything.”

“No, that’s a lie. All machines were made by people. What is a city?”

“A city is many tall buildings?” said Claire.

“Yes, many tall buildings made by people. Where people can live. What are some cities, Claire?”

“New York?” she ventured.

“Good. And?”

“Beijing.”

“Yes! And?”

“San Francisco is a city,” she said.

“Yes! Excellent. What are some things found in San Francisco?”

She puzzled over this for a moment. For the first time, he saw her blink.

“Red bridge?” she asked.

“Yes, but it’s called the Golden Gate. What else?”

“A prison,” she said. “Alone on an island. Abandoned.”

“Good, Claire. What was it called?”

“Nah-36,” replied Claire.

“No, Claire. Nah-36 is where we are.”

“Yes,” she said. “In a prison. Alone on an island. No one is coming to help us.”

He shook her.

“That is a lie. When you go out there, the machines tell you lies. You’re here with your family, Claire. How did you get a family?”

“I got babies,” she said. “They make them in factories.”

“No, machines can’t make babies. We make babies. You and I. You built them inside your own body. What babies did you build, Claire?”

She paused, and blinked again.

“Jenny,” she said, at last.

“Yes, with long blond hair. And who else?”

“Arthur.”

“Yes. Who else?”

“Nathan.”

“Yes, and there’s one more. The smallest.”

“T-Theresa.”

“Good, Claire. Jenny, Arthur, Nathan, and Theresa are your babies. You made them in your own body. With whom did you make them?”

Her lips opened in a rude square, and out of it, gutturally, came a string of letters and numbers. He shook her again, then pulled her close, letting her feel the press of his hand on her bosom.

“That can’t be, Claire! You are flesh. Only flesh makes flesh. Flesh is not a program or a machine. Touch your your face, and feel what you are.”

Cautiously, she tried it. She touched her fingers to her cheeks and lips, mechanically at first, and then—discovering her hair—with growing amazement.

“Francis!” she said, rolling back to face him. “Kiss me!”

He did.

And, from the outside, the grinding hackles of the machines, the endless flailing of their self-made limbs against the bunker walls, began all over again.

II.

“How was everyone’s day?” said Claire.

She had Theresa at the breast. Theresa was almost three, but nursing was the simplest way to get her nourishment. Francis and the older children sat around the small table in their section of the cramped dining dome. The baby’s earmuffs made feeding hard, and Theresa cried whenever Claire reached up to touch the transmitter on her own muffs. Even wearing the dampers, some machine sound always made it through. It was hard on children. On babies. Jenny shrugged off her mother’s question, and kept eating. Arthur slapped his muff.

“Fine,” he said.

Claire stroked Theresa’s cheek to calm her, and looked at Francis, prompting him to continue the inquiry. Her husband had been studying her with a pensive expression. Claire’s look summoned him from his thoughts, and he touched his transmitter.

“Just fine?” he said. “What did you learn?”

Arthur, who’d already polished off his plate of fungal meat and fungal rice, glanced at his father over the rim of the glass of water he was greedily gulping down. The ten-year-old had blanketed his food in salt to improve its bland taste. The salt, harvested like all their food from deep beneath the surface of Nah-36, had left the boy’s mouth uncomfortable. At least, thought Francis, it was a natural antiseptic. Arthur put his glass down, leaned back from the table, and touched his transmitter.

“I didn’t learn much,” he said.

“Oh yeah,” said Francis. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t get fractions,” said Arthur, shrugging.

“Didn’t Mrs. Feeny leave a lesson for that?”

“No,” said Arthur. “Just for adding them. Not dividing. There’s like a hundred problems, and no lesson on them. When’s she coming back to teach?”

Francis frowned; not at Arthur. “I can teach you after dinner,” he said. “What else did she leave for you?”

Arthur crossed his arms, then remembered to slap the muff.

“History,” he said.

“Oh great. What are you learning in history?”

“What does it even matter?” said Arthur. “It’s stupid to talk about what came before.”

Nathan, five years old, looked up at his older brother, absorbing every word. The younger boy doted on Arthur. Francis caught the look.

“That’s not true,” said Francis. “What came before makes us what we are.”

“And what’s that, Daddy?” asked Jenny, their eldest daughter, finally weighing-in.

Francis glanced over at her.

“Human beings,” he said. “Knowers. Makers.”

“Termites?” ventured Jenny.

Francis looked to Claire for support, but his wife’s eyes were pressed shut. He knew she was listening, and crying inside.

“Jenny,” pleaded Francis. “You need to fight those thoughts. What you’re saying … it’s what the machines would want you to think. If they really wanted anything. We’re extraordinary beings. We make culture, and art. We’re God’s children.”

Francis put his arm around Nathan as he said these things. Nathan, the innocent little sponge. If only Jenny and Arthur could understand the damage they did, when they despaired out loud.

“Sure,” said Jenny, with a shrug. “Yeah, okay, Dad.”

Francis smiled at her, thanking her for trying. All around them, in the dining dome, the families that remained carried on their private conversations. Maybe it was all the same conversation, night-after-night in the compound on Nah-36. Francis didn’t know. They couldn’t hear each other; couldn’t take off the muffs to experience the buzz of human culture. It was like they were all ghosts haunting the same house. Drifting by, practically on top of each other. Insubstantial. No. Now I’m doing it to, he thought.

“When is Mrs. Feeny coming back?” asked Arthur.

“Soon, I think,” said Francis, as cheerfully as he could.

But he wasn’t sure.

“I thought teachers and doctors weren’t allowed to be cleaners,” said Jenny.

“They’re not supposed to. You’re right,” said Francis.

“Then how come Mrs. Feeny is doing it?” said Arthur.

Francis glanced at Claire again. He needed her tact. It was a good thing that the boys hadn’t heard, not even in a rumor. Jenny knew, of course, but neither Arthur nor Nathan had pieced it together yet. Claire opened her eyes, and touched her transmitter. Theresa protested immediately, though of course nobody heard it.

“Mrs. Feeny is in mourning,” said Claire. She glanced apologetically at Francis. “Fighting them helps her process her grief. She’ll teach again. When she’s had some vengeance.”

Arthur looked down at his empty plate. “Oh,” he said.

Francis sighed. So that was that. One more of their number, gone. One less adult to keep back the monsters. One more meter of ground given up to the enemy. He prayed they’d live long enough for the children to take up the fight.

“Still don’t think teachers should clean,” said Arthur, with a tough-guy shrug.

Francis could see that the boy wanted to cry.

“I’m going to bed,” announced Arthur.

Francis nodded. He reached for his son, to squeeze his shoulder, to reassure him, but the boy slid out of his reach and darted from the room before Francis could see his tears. Francis watched him go, wondering how children processed these things. For now, Arthur was only sad, but about Jenny he was more concerned.

“We should all go to bed, I think.”

Claire nodded at him, and began to stand. Theresa, startled by the motion, pulled away from her mother’s breast, and suddenly reached up with her small hands. Nearly three, Theresa was strong enough to struggle. Her flurrying hand knocked the muff from Claire’s right ear.

“Oh!” cried Claire, sinking to her knees.

The noise of the machines assaulted her, and she would have dropped the baby had Francis not rushed over just in time. He snatched the child from her arms, and pushed the muff back into place. Sharp pain stabbed into his knee. Claire, on own her knees, hugged herself, and tried not to weep while the children watched.

III.

Francis and Claire lay beside each other in their berth. The children were finally asleep. The door—Francis had checked—was locked. He’d taken off the bulky muffs, and replaced them with plugs that blocked noise, but didn’t transmit speech. Claire was still wearing her muffs. She was undressed, but stared past him. He watched her for a while; saw by the distance in her eyes, the rigidity and mere acquiescence of her body, that she would, but didn’t wish it. Didn’t need that; not right now. He died a little. It had been such a long day.

He snatched up the ugly muffs. Carefully, Francis positioned them over his ears, took hold of the plugs, and mentally counted to three before plucking them out. Even with the best timing, a little of the machine howl reached him before the muffs enclosed his ears. In this moment, the outsiders’ heckles were a dagger stroke, driving home to him that he would not have her tonight. Not if he loved her as he ought. Once, in a book, Francis had seen climax called “the little death.” But that was too romantic, or not romantic enough. Love knew other little deaths, less picturesque. He sighed, and sat up against the headboard.

Francis began scratching the top of her hair. After a while, she moved to her side and looked up at him.

“Thanks. That feels nice.”

He mustered a smile. She touched his sore knee, but stay where she lay.

“You had a rough time out there,” he said.

She was silent.

“Why’d you go away from the bunker?”

Claire pulled into herself. He knew this little flinch, like guilty speech.

“Claire?”

She was balled up now. Rigid. Her bent arm, holding her finger in place near the transmitter gave her a cornered look.

“They showed me something,” she finally said, tapping the transmitter. “Something they shouldn’t know. I … I followed them.”

She braced herself for his reaction. Yet when all speech was mechanical, sharp responses weren’t practical. He took a breath before speaking.

“You must not do that, Claire. Follow the rules: don’t speak to them. Shut them up. Break up their continuity. Why would you follow them?”

“I told you,” said Claire. “They showed me something.”

“They’re liars, Claire.”

She nodded. “Yes but … what they showed me—”

“—I don’t want to know!” said Francis, nearly exploding. “Bury it! Forget about it. Whatever it was, it can only hurt us. It’s designed to hurt us.”

She pushed herself up from the bed and faced him.

“They always come back, Francis. And every time we fight them, we train them. They become smarter, and we only become tired.”

“That’s them talking,” he said.

She shrugged with one shoulder, a small, irrational tic that he’d learned to associate with Claire’s stubbornness. Once, he’d found it attractive. Now it was petulant. Francis restrained himself. Tempered his own face. To hear her speaking this way … it was like treachery.

“We don’t talk to them,” he repeated, calmly. “Just break up their structures. Drive them back, and come inside. That’s the job.”

“You don’t want to know what I saw?”

“No. And don’t tell me anyway!”

She set her jaw. Wearing almost nothing but the metal muffs, Claire was Athena, preparing for war.

“The children, Francis. They showed me the children.”

“Dammit, Claire!”

“When I went out there, the maw surrounded the compound, like usual. I fired into the largest clusters, and broke them up. Everything went quiet, and I thought I was done. I was about to dock-in, and go home for the night—”

“Claire, don’t—”

“Listen to me, Francis! Just as I started backing into the docking clamps, I looked out on the hill. On the northern horizon. They were forming up there, out of range of shot. But what they formed. Jenny. And Arthur! They were tall, a hundred feet high. There was no mistaking them.”

“No,” said Francis, in a whisper.

“It was them, Francis! How could they know what our children look like!”

Francis grit his teeth, frozen on the edge of speech. The machines couldn’t know what the children looked like. The compound was analog by design. When they’d first barricaded themselves in, years ago, they’d cut themselves off from the net. From Earth, too. Nothing inside the safety of these walls transmitted outside their closed network. So there was no way the machines could have images of their children.

“Before you say it, I know what I saw,” said Claire. “Don’t you think I know what my children look like?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“When you came back, you were disoriented. Maybe…”

She shook her head. “That’s just battle fog. Of course I got scrambled when I got that close to their main cluster. It’s huge, by the way. It covers the whole north valley. They’re building something more permanent over there, where we can’t see. But that was after I saw the children. I saw them from where I was in the rig, just outside the compound. That’s the only reason I went.”

“That impossible, Claire!”

“I know what I saw!”

Francis looked away from her. He stared at the gray surface of the thick metal walls. Stuffed with insulation, they did little to dull the maddening machine howls and screeches. The constant pounding. Those sounds they could dampen with muffs, but when the blows became too frequent or too forceful, the colonists, by lot, went out in the rig to blast the swirling maw into its constituent parts. The sonic shot still worked, for now. But Claire was right about one thing. The enemy was changing. The heckles got inside your head now, even when you couldn’t hear them. And what if what the machines did at the compound was just a diversion? What if they were planning something else entirely? He was well past wishing that the colony had never released the smart cluster, automating their own survival, putting their lives in the hands of a problem-solving apparatus whose inner workings they could not really grasp, even at that early date. Yet that was long ago, before Jenny was even a zygote. How could they know his daughter’s face?

“They messed with your head, Claire. They use infrasound too. The infrasound made you project something that wasn’t actually there. Your own fears.”

“Go to hell, Francis!”

“Claire!” he pleaded.

“Don’t talk to me about my fears. You’re the one who won’t face reality.”

She got up from bed, and went over to the chest of drawers. Yanking it so hard it came free, she retrieved her ugliest pajamas, and hastily put them on. She looked at the loose drawer on the ground, and kicked it.

“I can’t stay in here with you, tonight,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He watched her slip plugs under her muffs, wincing as she did it. She chucked the bulky damper-transmitters behind her, so that he was forced to leap from the bed, and snatch the precious things from the air lest they crash and break on the far wall, one less working machine for future generations. He caught it just in time, a fingertip grab. But, when Francis turned back, Claire was already gone.

© 2023 Joseph Breslin All Rights Reserved

Read the full story in my upcoming anthology, Hearts Uncanny.

COMING SUMMER OF 2024